Sent from my iPhone

Sent from my iPhone

for lunch. happy spring!

Sent from my iPhone

1

Something about this dog

This wooden dog

jumping the fence

into the garden

over the brambles

caught by the rays

of daffodils

2

Something about a clay dog

that turns to fur and flesh

A dog whose head has

been sitting out back

on the table

gathering dew and

perspiration over months

in a white plastic bag.

3

Something about a dog

I can slip my arms

inside his

slide my two feet

into his four

running like a girl

trips on a stride

on the way to all fours

my right arm slides right

into his

stride hits

four legs churning

from the shoulders

4

from the hips

like dog bares teeth

like rivers down gorges

like lovers in strong bodies

like racers over hurdles

like slow dancing, hard

like forever

like a bullet

yeah, like the wind

5

Something about this dog.

Running in my dream

who couldn't find himself anywhere

he's a dog whose gotta run

somewhere far and fast.

6

Something about walking around town with the fore half of this wooden dog sticking out my own forehead. Leading my thoughts and my steps. Bumping into the glass before I can set my eyes close enough to see what's going on in there. This dog, sticks his nose and pointy ears into everything and knows everything about everything. And won't tell me a thing. Not a thing.

Well, I never did wear hats much. An occasional monkey fur foreign legion thing with a great brown strap and a bead that pulls up under my chin, with a cow lick over the left crown that gives me the air of a woman dipping into something she can handle.

This dog, is no hat. Though I move about with the certainty of a hatted woman. Neck thick at the base like one of them old trees, one of the old, old trees. Sturdy. That has seen everything because it could, and wanted to. My chin held too high, you know, like a chip, like attitude, held high like the altitude of alps like Lassen cold barren trees over on their sides.

I am holding my head in this way so this wood dog will look like my hat and not so much like he's escaping. Not so much like he couldn't stand the thought I was having and just wanted to get the hell outta there, outta here. What's the matter in here? This damn dog.

7

Something about this dog who turns dream to dirt to sticks from the garden whose painted himself up like some great old table. Like girls with lipsticks and perfume. This dog dressed to kill and finds his way out through the front of my head. And I'm standing around like some twit who's worried about wearing her hat on the wrong part of her head and some dumb-assed busy body's gonna call me on it. When I don't even get it that the dog sent to me by, you know, you know who ...

Back on the street, drivers impatient at the corners, piling up for work. She's walking back home thinking about the difference between walking with no underpants and walking with underpants and how the flesh of the butt might move differently. And, do any of these people out here know that she forgot to pack another pair of underpants and isn't it wearing any. Is it less safe to walk in the park without your underpants. And, if the day won't get any sunnier, will yesterday's sweat-wet and smoky pair get dry?

Wash dishes and underwear later. Breakfast more cooked than eaten, dog walked and bathroom scrubbed, all the while rehearsing the reasons why it wouldn't be an intrusion if she scrubbed the toilet, too much of last Sundays paper read, her bed shaken out and remade, though she hasn't slept in it since the first night. Checking on the hopelessly drying underpants. She lies down for a nap, because this is the day there is nothing for her to do, but begin writing the book. With the watch pressed into her face, arms folded around her like a mother, she passes the first hour or so, drooling just a little, cold, just a little, until that side becomes numb. The pain wakes her, she rolls over onto the other side. She pulls up the bottom of the spread and sleeps on like a bad girl, sneaking delicious morsels of time, she folds into sleep, like hills into fog, no dreams, no regrets.

The wind blew wildly and the fog cleared thoroughly and those underpants did dry. They did fly off the hanger, down one story, over the ivy, over the fence, past the papery fern and landed quietly at the foot of the azalea. And there, they lie , draping and napping over the pink scalloped concrete border. But she does not know that yet.

All day the shame of a done-nothing day. She practiced being proud of her compulsive, self-stimulating house cleaning. This, she believed was not going to wash. She knew it , she didn't even care. Cleaning and cooking and cleaning again, had great potential for wasted, meaninglessly spent days. A day wasted. And napping, though a more honorable endeavor, a large step taken even from last year's neatly unsuccessful lay down for three minutes goal in counseling. These were not the material of a day well spent. The day's practice became out-swimming the pull of dirty water down the drain. The drain was huge and the water plenty. That was, until the garden sprites took the day into their tiny fingers.

Two and a half hours after lay-down, she woke up, perfectly. The sun filling the window of her porch room, she woke up laughing quietly, contentedly. Absolutely delighted by the lengthy and dreamless sleep. Damn cozy. A peach on the sill to eat, sun shining, maybe the underpants would be dry. From where she lie, she could see the bra still on it's hanger, half a flight up stairs, waggling in the wind. She hoped the same would be true of the underpants. What were the chances of the underpants blowing off And if they did what were the chances they'd fall anywhere but downstairs on the concrete. If they did, what were the chances that they'd still be wet and lying in a pile of something awful enough to have to rewash them and go shopping with steve on the bus without underpants. Slim, very slim.

She did get off the bed after a few minutes of relishing the prone and the the sunlight. She went out after those underpants. They were, well, you know, over the ivy and over the fence that stood a couple of feet over her head, down on the ground, far far away.

Yikes. Ack. Shit. God-dam. Geezuz, damn underpant's, damn wind. Shit. Now how's she gonna. Oh no, no fence climbing for her. She doesn't climb fences, skinny little rickety fences, way off the ground, no foothold in sight. Over the stair railing, no fucking way, up high over concrete, not this girl. She doesn't climb fences, no undergarment, no cracking bones, no bloody head, no fucking bloody underpants. Shit.

Calmate, chica! Down the stairs check the fence, you don't know. What do you know? Maybe it looks tall from up here maybe it's shorter than me. Sure, sure, what are you, stupid? Blind? Go check, what else you going to do? Down the stairs, onto the concrete, just like I thought too tall and no place to climb. I need one of those mechanical arms with grabbing finger at the end, longer than long. And lord gawdalmighty right here, in the damn trash, not a long grabber, but an old mop, gross with dirty floors, age and cobwebs in the trash bucket. But almost what I need to reach, way over the fence, not from down here. No not the stairs; oh yes my little hero. Up the stairs, hang off the railing and hope that bookshelf of a piece of flimsy wood tacked to the railing doesn't break off under your weight and leave you, dear, smashed cake on the concrete below. Stepping like a feather weight on the rung, winding my body around the post like a garden snake, reaching down a long arm and a mop handle, stretching like Rubberman, falling half a foot short and no grabbers anyway, shit shit shit shit. Calling all spider girls, call all cars, alarm, alert. Somebody could do this, somebody sure of foot, stout of heart, empty of mind, a hero could do this. Simple, see, from here. One foot on the lower support, swing the other leg over the railing and the bookshelf, foot steps over the ivy and over the fence top, hero's never look down even if they look like they're looking, they don't. Foot rests on top running board of fence, next step onto little post support, some sweetheart put there. Next step onto lower running board, pick up the underpants and and scale the monster. No I couldn't rickety fence, no piece of wood as big as it should be, no nail plated solid as it should be, no leg as long as it should be, no girl as nimble as she should be. Aack, no!

Next thing you know, somebody else in my body is throwing her second leg over the railing. Every window in the yard has eyes and there are hundreds of windows back here over the fence. I scale down the other side, picking my dry and clean underpants, lifting them to the roaring crowd, cheering my heroic figure, over the monster's back. I wave my underpants over my head, smiling like a movie star, bowing like a life saver to my fans and champions. The underpants are saved. I carry them back upstairs, striding like a giant after battle, toss them on the bed like they meant nothing to me.

Sent from my iPhone

looks particularly charming today

Sent from my iPhone